


the lion enters my heart; he lies at rest

by templemarker



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 03:59:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4290009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/templemarker/pseuds/templemarker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a steep climb from the water back to the residence, but somehow Jaime kept pace with him instead of the other way around. He often had; one of the subtle things that had always made Tyrion feel less alone, in a house with a viper for a sister and a politic father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the lion enters my heart; he lies at rest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alley_Skywalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/gifts).



> While there are no specific allusions to _A Dance of Dragons_ or the Season 5 finale of _Game of Thrones_ , I am caught up with everything and so is this story.

"I think your aim is off," Tyrion observed, watching Jaime attempt to skip rocks off the waters at their residence in Casterly Rock. "Do you still favor your right side? I would have thought you'd be more practised with the left, now."

Jaime cast him an exasperated look, flinging the next of his carefully curated pile of rocks into the blue. "Do better, then," he goaded, pressing a rock into Tyrion's palm. 

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "This was always your past-time, not mine," he reminded Jaime, but gamely threw the rock. It skipped twice and then sank, and Tyrion nearly laughed at the look of blatant superiority on his brother's face. 

"No matter what side I favor, I am still the master of you," Jaime teased. 

"At skipping rocks," Tyrion reminded him. "Hardly worth even mentioning at the table tonight. What an accomplishment for the great Ser Jaime, to best his younger brother at stones. The women will throw themselves at your feet, begging to be fucked by the master of rocks."

Jaime laughed outright at that, nodding. "Perhaps I should boast, see if your speculations are still as incisive as they are biting, brother."

"You need no more excuses to stir the hearts and loins of Casterly Rock's womenfolk," Tyrion replied, turning to sit on an outcropping of stone, dry from the summer day's heat. The water was low this year, and many a fisherman had come to their seat here at the Rock and in Lannisport begging a solution to the problem. It had fallen to Tyrion to deal with them, as Jaime held very little interest in the governance of the Westerlands even as he was still named the Warden of them. 

After so many years, everyone knew it was Tyrion on whom a petitioner would attend. There was talk, because there was always talk in Westeros, particularly in the rumour-mongering lands of the Lannisters, but their accepted (if not beloved) ruler kept peace about the matter in King's Landing. So too did Jaime and Tyrion, and life went on in the lands of the Rock. 

"Are you tired, Tyrion?" Jaime asked, trying poorly to hide his concern. "We should go inside, escape the sun. It's been an unusually unpleasant summer," he noted, squinting through the trees upwards. 

Tyrion wanted to bang his head into the rock he was sitting one. He did not know what was worse, that things were so devastatingly boring and at peace that he and Jaime, once determining the fate of this and other lands, were reduced to talking about the weather; or that he was actually tired of the draining sun but refused to admit it, as if he were still the frail child Jaime had bodily protected so often in their youth. 

He felt old. Practicality and the thought of the chilled wine awaiting them in the antechamber won out, and he reluctantly nodded. "Let's adjourn to the study, yes? Perhaps I could tempt you with a game of cyvasse to pass the afternoon?"

"You always win," Jaime complained, gathering the flask of water and the small basket that had contained their lunch. 

"All the more reason to play, so that you can learn something and I can boast about it just as you will about the stones," he said dismissively. 

It was a steep climb from the water back to the residence, but somehow Jaime kept pace with him instead of the other way around. He often had; one of the subtle things that had always made Tyrion feel less alone, in a house with a viper for a sister and a politic father. 

Though they had their disagreements--and, on the occasion of Tyrion's patricide, a silence that lasted years--they came back to one another easily enough, putting the past behind them and focussing on where they were now. Which, unfortunately, was Casterly Rock, the place they'd schemed for years to get away from. But perhaps it was true that everyone comes home again, because it was less provincial and boring than Tyrion recalled, and certainly held fewer death threats. It was refreshing to cease expecting his murder, for a time. 

It was slow at first, coming to know each other again after many years and many battles. Tyrion found Jaime tempered, cautious in a way he had never been before his hand was lost, and Cersei too. Though Jaime was still single-mindedly interested in swordfighting and its accoutrements over the politics of the day and their intrigues, there was enough common interest between the two of them that supper was never tiresome. 

They invited guests frequently, and other friends and acquaintances would often drop in unannounced, an event becoming so common that Cook had taken to keeping some sort of meal always on call for whatever weary traveler showed up at their door. For all that there was no mistress of Casterly Rock, as there hadn't been for decades, Tyrion was proud enough of the table he and Jaime kept. There was always accomodation ready, even for those whom the title "friend" was dicey at best. 

Tyrion wondered who they would find that evening. Ser Brienne of Tarth had left only the night before with her puck-faced squire Podrick. Jaime's spirits had immediately dissolved into moodiness and snappish remarks, which would have been a surprise change of character had it not happened following every single one of the lady knight's appearances. If Tyrion were still a betting man--or rather, if he had a discreet individual to bet with, he would wager that Jaime was properly heartsick. But it was clear that the matter couldn't be touched by a ten-foot pike on even the most delicate of inquiries. 

Jaime held out his hand as they crested the last few steps, and Tyrion took it without comment, using the strength of it to lever his way onto the cliff's edge. Patting the dirt from his tunic, he surveyed the land. Jaime did as well, though more cursorily. 

In pleasant silence, they made their way back to the residence. It wasn't confinement that kept them there; they were under no orders to exile themselves from Kings Landing, nor did they miss any news or gossip of politics and courtesans. But after so many years of winter, the charm of a quiet summer in their homelands held a particular attractiveness. Side by side, the brothers Lannister went home.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a strange little poem, "The Lion" by Pearl Andelson Sherry: 
> 
> _The lion enters my heart; he lies at rest,  
>  Most solitary beast, in a solitary breast.  
> He walks in the air of my most frail thought:  
> He crushes not a flower underfoot. _
> 
> _We walk in his jungle, hand on mane;  
>  On the sand-brown of his man, how blue my every vein!  
> His jaw is kindlier than that of a mother,  
> Kind for me, kind for any other._


End file.
